Page Eight
by KKBELVIS
Summary: Just a plain ol' hunt story in a dark and spooky water treatment plant. Hurt, humor, action, and some tender care. Time set - early Season one.
1. Chapter 1

PAGE

EIGHT

By: Karen B.

Summary: Just a plain ol' hunt story in a dark and spooky water treatment plant. Hurt, humor, action, and some tender care. Time set - early Season one.

Disclaimer: Not the owner.

Rated: Nothing horrible.

**/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

The sun slowly sank behind the gigantic stony-white structure sitting at the end of the East 12th pier. The darkening sky obscured the shadowy outline of the water treatment plant, and the dozen or so no trespassing signs that had been placed around the concrete building over the past twenty-five years.

Yet , squinting into the night, two predators lurked just inside the building's shadows. Both figures were rigid, readying to attack the next sign-crasher that wandered past. They communicated in silence, a simple look sending them their separate ways. One going right; while the other went left, both now circling in 'wing' position waiting in ambush.

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"We're here, wake up." Dean lowered the blaring radio, peering over at his brother. Sam was slouched down in the passenger seat, legs tangled under the dash and shaggy brown hair poking out insubordinately as if each strand had a life of its very own - and didn't though. "Sam." Dean elbow-nudged his sleeping brother.

"Wha'?" Sam cleared his throat, wiggling in his seat, right knee thumping hard against the dash. "Ow," he mumbled groggily, not bothering to blink open his eyes.

"Wake up, Dean said, more insistent as he parked the Impala near the 12th Street Pier in a weed-infested lot.

Sam yawned, "Wasn't sleeping." He gave a little cough, knuckling his eyes. "Was, you know…" He drowsily pointed at the radio. "Was listening to mullet rock's greatest hits." Sam slowly sat up and stretched. "Rock Of Ages, Rock You Like A Hurricane, Rocky Mountain Way, Rock Bottom, Rock Your head."

"Bang Your Head, Sam, it's, Bang Your Head."

"Blah, blah, blah," Sam sniffled, stretching and yawning again.

"Keep it up, Sam, it'll get real ugly in here real fast." Dean gave Sam's shoulder a solid punch.

"Hey, man." Sam winced. "What was that for?" he complained, rubbing the sore spot.

"Payback for the last hunt you found for us, geek. Only thing we got was a crap-load of pigeon poopy smeared all over my baby."

"Pigeon poopy?" Sam giggled.

"Shut up, Sam. This better not be another wild goose chase," Dean warned, every nerve tingling with anticipation of the hunt.

"Why, Dean? You afraid of geese?" Sam snickered, opening the glove box and digging around inside.

Dean sent Sam a scowl. "You suck."

Sam shrugged. "I like you too, man," he smirked, retrieving a small, but powerful Maglite.

"Bro…I drove all friggin' day to get here." Dean leaned forward over the steering wheel, peering out the front windshield at the abandon, two-story water plant. "This place looks like every other place we've been to fifty times over the past month alone." Dean took in a deep breath and tried to settle the itchy-twitch in the pit of his stomach. He hadn't killed so much as an ear hair in weeks, and he was way beyond dying to.

It was early evening, the sun just setting beyond the horizon, sending a dreary fog quickly rolling in off the river to hover low over the ground.

"I bet the only thing inside is a whole stink load of nothing but rats, pigeons, mold, and maybe a few spooky cobwebs. If that 's the kind of gig this is Sam, your Chess Club ass is going to be washing and waxing the car for the rest of your life."

Sam gave a wheezy little cough, testing the flashlight.

"Cold or flu?" Dean asked without looking at his brother.

"Neither," Sam insisted, "just something in my throat."

"Uh-huh." Dean plopped back against his seat. "So, uh, Sam, you better be sure this is one of ours," he threatened. "Are you?" Dean cracked the knuckles of his left then right hand, making loud popping noises.

"Unimpressive." Sam set the flashlight on his lap. "And come to think of it…" he stretched out his arms, lacing his fingers and cracking his knuckles even louder in return. " No."

"Smart ass."

"So, seriously, what are you telling me anyway, Dean? You don't want to go snooping around in the big, dark, spooky water plant looking for Mothman?" Sam picked up the flashlight, aiming the beam out the front window.

"I'm saying, this better be the real deal, because if I don't gank something soon," Dean growled, "I'm going to flake out."

Sam shined the beam into Dean's face. "Too late for that, dude," he laughed.

"Whatever," Dean said causally, knocking Sam's arm away - and the bright light in his face. "Let's do this." He got out of the car and unlocked the trunk, lifting the carpeted panel to reveal the false bottom of their weapon's store. "Come here you sweet, luscious beauty," he said, reaching for his favorite ivory handled handgun and stuffing his pockets full of ammo.

"Why do you do that?" Sam complained, coming to stand next to Dean he bent inside the trunk grabbing his gun, also arming his pockets with reloads.

"Do what?" The ringing cry of a lone seagull floated in across the gray misty wind, adding to the unnatural eerie feel whirling around like a pinwheel inside of Dean. He took a step back checking his gun, eyeing every shadow - moving or not.

"Treat your gun like it's a piece of candy…your girlfriend or something." Sam pulled out of the weapon's store and shut the trunk quietly.

Dean tucked the gun safely between his bareback and waistband. "We going to chat it up all night, Kathy, or do some hunting? I told you, if I don't gank something soon I'm going to jump off that pier."

With a huff, Sam headed toward said pier, Dean right at his side.

"So, you really think this is Mothman's hunting grounds?" Dean asked, full of uncertainty.

"According to page eight of Dad's journal…yes."

The lazy river swells sloshed against the support beams below. Dean glanced out over the water. Damn he missed dad. If only they could find him, the least the guy could do was call. Let him and Sam know he was still breathing. Dean pushed the thought aside.

"I've never seen a Mothman, you sure they're real?" Dean swallowed hard, feeling a bit nauseous. "This thing moving?" He looked down at the slotted wooden planks.

"No."

"Huh?" Dean scowled. "So, 'eh, what esle does page eight say about Mothman, Sammy."

"Not too many people have seen one. They're tricky and super-sonic fast."

"And fugly," Dean added.

"Anything supernatural is fugly to you, Dean."

"Yeah, guess so." Dean concentrated on looking straight ahead, still not so sure the pier wasn't actually swaying with each slosh of the river below. "What else?"

"Well, unlike your garden variety moth, Mothmen are not attracted to light or fire. They're nocturnal and like things dark, and damp. Seems they also don't kill just for food, to protect their young, or their mate, but they also kill for the pure sport of it. Only one other species on the planet does that, Dean."

"Yeah, what one?"

"People." Sam gave Dean a sideways glance.

"People are crazy," Dean agreed.

"Including you?" Sam queried.

"Only when I let my little brother talk me into," Dean gulped, wobbling off balance, "Dude, you sure this thing isn't moving?"

"It's not moving, Dean. You're just motion sick," Sam griped

"I don't get motion sick, Sam."

"You know studies prove even fish can get motion sick, Dean."

"Shut up hemorrhoid boy," Dean cracked. "Gawd, you're such a geek."

"Actually…"

"Back to page eight," Dean interrupted any other worthless trivia crap his brother was about to toss at him.

"Mothman's supposedly super smart, almost man-like, and its tongue can produce a sort of toxic chemical. If a Mothman bites you, the venom is released into your bloodstream and paralyzes the victim temporarily."

"So the victim can't fight back. Giving Mothman time to play with his food before he eats it," Dean surmised, swaying a little. Damn good thing he was a hunter and not a sailor.

"Right," Sam agreed.

"You okay?" Sam frowned. "You look, green."

"I look like I always look, awesome." Dean ran a hand over his face, hoping to wipe away the tinge of green he knew to be there.

"Cold or flu?" Sam mocked.

"I'm fine," Dean groused. "And, just what's wrong with candy and girlfriends, anyway?" Dean shot at Sam out of the blue.

"Wha'?" Sam shook his head. "Dude, just forget I said…" A tin can clattered out of nowhere like a spinning top, bringing both men's handguns up in tandem. Eyeballing the tin only for a second, their weapons lowered.

"PBR.," Dean observed.

"PNB.," Sam remarked stepping around the tin.

"PNB?" Both Dean's eyebrows shot up.

"Pork-n-Beans."

"Oh." Dean nodded, ignoring the bazillion 'No Trespassing' signs that hung from every post - just like the three homeless men and four hormonal laden teens must have before they disappeared.

Dean sighed as they stepped off the pier. Rock and rolling in his car - always a must. Rock and rolling in his stomach - not so much. They headed up the cracked walkway that lead to a large vault-like door. Sam dug in his jacket pocket for his lock pick set.

Dean pushed on the door. "It's open, genius."

Sam stuck up his middle finger.

They paused in the entranceway, drawing their guns. The room was echoey and spacious. Sam dug out his flashlight and cast the beam in a wide circle. The interior looked like a very dark, very wet cave. The cement floor and walls were slimy with black mold and above - the fluttering of wings. Sam shined the light toward the ceiling.

"Friggin' pigeons," Dean snarled, glancing up searching for the little car wreckers, but unable to see past the strands of cobwebs hanging from wiring and broken light fixtures.

"Or bats," Sam offered.

"Just as bad," Dean announced as they moved forward through the huge, empty room, the heavy door shutting behind them. The air swirled damp, the echo of their footfalls sounding off, like someone was beating a stick against a hollow barrel. Dean cringed. "Shhh," he hushed, waving a hand at Sam.

"Shhh, yourself," Sam hushed back. "This place is huge." He shined his light along the colorfully painted graffiti streaked walls. Empty beer cans, drug paraphernalia, old blankets and an array of wrappers, junk, and disgusting debris lay strewn about. "And obviously well used by the locals as a party place."

Dean kept his eyes peeled for any sign of Mothman as they walked further into the wide expanses of the building

"So, if there was a Mothman here don't you think the cops would have found it or at least something by now? Bones, blood, fingernail, damn antenna at least?" Dean questioned, suspiciously. "There's no reports of anything other than people going in and not coming out."

"I don't know, Dean. Maybe Mothman licks the platter clean."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Maybe you lick…shit…" He startled, flipping of his safety and aiming his gun at the thing that skittered across the floor in front of them.

Sam chuckled. "Just a rat, man," he scoffed, following the rodent with the beam of his flashlight until the animal ran into a hole in the wall.

"That had to be the biggest rat I've ever seen."

"Sorry to disappoint you, bro." Sam pointed the beam off to his right. "Second largest, third…fourth…fifth," Sam continued counting, aiming the spotlight along the wall at each pointy nosed, whisker twitching, hairless tailed rodent that emerged out of the shadows. "Sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, ten …"

"Sam, stop, okay." Dean shivered in disgust. "I get it. We're going to get fanged to death by a rat before we ever see a Mothman," he muttered flatly. "Come on." He gestured toward two spiraling staircases. One set on the left went up, the other set to their right heading down. "We have two other levels we have to check out." Dean dug into his pocket and pulled out his cell flipping it open. "Place is a dead zone," he informed shoving the phone back in his pocket in a huff.

"Split up?" Sam inquired

"Stay together," Dean countered. "Which way?" He turned to Sam. "Up or down?"

Sam directed his beam of light up the spiral staircase, indicating his choice.

"Down it is, then," Dean chuckled under his breath, stepping past Sam and heading down the stairs.

"Damn it, Dean," Sam tsked following right behind. "I chose up. Why do you even bother asking me if you're not going to take my advice?"

"Number one, Sam, because it's fun, and number two," Dean descended the long, spiral staircase, "you always have that dumb-look on your face."

"You mean you like to screw with me." Sam followed close behind.

"Huh." Dean tilted his head in thought. "That, too."

Taking the steps two at a time, they quickly reached the bottom.

"Left or right?" Dean looked both ways.

"Oh, I don't know, Dean." Sam gave his brother an evil glare. "What does the 'dumb-look on my face' tell you?"

Dean studied Sam through narrowed eyes. "Not much. Ha!" He smirked.

"Jerk." Sam rolled his eyes. "Next time I'll be sure not to take a front row seat at your one-man comedy show," he grumbled.

"Come on, this way." Dean cut left.

They twisted in and out of the tight aisles. In-between rusted, old pumps and copper-corroded leaky pipes that seemed to line every wall including the ceiling. The constant drip, drip of water was annoying and stained the walls reddish brown, filling the air with the musty fungal smell of mold and mildew.

"Man, Sam, there's nothing here."

"We still have to check out the upstairs Dean," Sam said from behind. "How do you know we won't find anything up there?"

"Because." Dean glanced briefly over his shoulder, pointing his index finger right in Sam's face.

"Yeah, okay, whatever, man," Sam groaned.

"Sam, I just know," Dean said, sidestepping a gray, slimy puddle of water. "Call it instinct."

"More like bullshit."

"Bro, this isn't one of ours," Dean complained unhappily. "Even that pack of rats won't come this far," he said with confindence, yet his sharp, well-trained eyes anxiously searched every knook. "Let's give the upper level the once over and then get us some burgers and fries. Or do you want pizza?"

"Why you asking my 'dumb-face'?" Sam's tone sarcastic.

Dean turned around. "If you'd stop wearing the 'dumb-face', bro," Dean tilted his head to one side, "maybe I'd stop asking it." He grinned.

"Dean, you're a big jerk."

"And you're just, well, big and…" Dean pressed his lips together, hearing a muffled snapping sound. He listened harder, glancing past Sam and staring into the darkness with the gut-response of an experienced hunter.

"Dean, what is it?" Sam stiffened.

"Probably more bullshit." Dean brushed past Sam. "You and your dumb- face stay here."

"Dude."

"Sam, stay." Dean crept toward the far corner the noise had come from. Squinting into the dark, he smirked at the large rat scrambling to escape the spring-loaded trap. "Poor bastard. Just another one of Mickey's friends, Sam."

Dean grimaced, watching the animal twist and turn in its death throws. What was a rat trap doing down here where they hadn't seen one rat - until now. Come to think on it, he hadn't seen a single trap upstairs where the rats moved about like a herd of stampeding horses. Distract and attack, his father's words rang out in his brain like a five alarm fire bell.

"Sam, something's wrong." Dean turned just in time to see a human-like form over six-feet tall, with glowing red eyes and two fuzzy-white wings budding out of its shoulders like an eagles, detach itself from the shadowy corner and take flight straight at them. "Sam, hit the deck." Sam dove for the floor just as Dean raised his gun and took a well-placed shot at Mothman's heart, but missed. There was no time for a follow-up shot. As page eight of dad's journal had said, the creature was super smart and sonic fast. It flew sideways, diving at him. The swoosh of wings and the high pitched screams were deafening. "Son of a…" Dean dropped, and tucked into a tight ball. "…bitch," he rolled over and over to get away.

Mothman wasn't just some creepy supernatural being - Mothman really did have a brain. Keeping a firm grip on his gun, Dean pressed both hands against his ears as sharp pointed talons snagged across his jacket ripping into his leather. Dean shoulder rolled, coming up to his feet just in time to see the creature had switched its attention to Sam. Dean raced forward, wanting to take another shot, but Mothman was standing directly in front of his little brother - wings spread wide and in a full-on wrestling match with Sam. Dean froze, if he took a shot now, surely he'd hit Mothman, but he was also more than likely to hit his brother.

"Shoot, Sammy. Now!" Dean as much ordered as he did beg, the prickle of fear sending a thousand tiny electrical waves through his body standing his hair straight on end.

Sam was a spitball of fire, but no match for the strength of Mothman. Dean watched helplessly as Mothman, with sonic speed crashed into Sam, crushing the kid's flashlight between its powerfully large jaws.

**Bang!**

Sam's gun went off, but he too, had obviously missed the target. Mothman was just too damn fast. The bullet ricocheted off pipe after pipe, sending a metallic melody bouncing from wall-to-wall.

The stray bullet clipped the fleshy lobe of Dean's right ear. "Ooomph." He fell, his chin hitting the ground hard and scrapping his knees on the cement. "S'm," he called weakly, gulping in a mouthful of wet, mildewy floor, a thin stream of blood sliding down the side of his neck.

Dean raised his head up, bile filing his throat. Mothman held Sam firm in its clawed grasp, the man-sized being towering over his brother by a good three inche, its white angel-like wings spread wide. The creature sneered over the top of Sam's head at Dean, taunting, almost seeming to laugh in triumph.

No way he had a clear shot. Dean's blood ran cold as Mothman dipped its head down , the humanoid's teeth-filled mouth taking a bit out of the top of Sam's right shoulder.

"Ahhh," Sam cried out.

"Sammy!" Dean fought against the nauseating flip of his stomach.

Sam violently tried to twist away, but Mothman's long pink tongue rasped out poking into the open wound and secreting a mucous like slime. "Gah…Dean." Sam's body suddenly went rigid, arms falling limp to his sides seemingly paralyzed by the slime. Veins popped out along the sides of his neck and he blew puffs of air out his mouth, fingers gnarling. His gun slipped from his grip, clattering to the floor and spinning off into the dark.

Dean scrambled to his feet, aiming his pistol carefully.

"Sammy, your right." Dean barked loudly.

"Ungh," Sam grunted and struggled desperately, trembling harshly, obviously trying to send his body the message to move.

Though it was dark, Dean could just make out his brother's shadow inch ever so slightly out of his line of fire. Dean's finger throbbed, tapping against the trigger. God help him if he hit his brother by mistake. He was desperate to take the kill-shot, but settled for putting a bullet in the creature's right shoulder - his only clear target.

Mothman screeched again, but never let go of its catch, the fuzzy, white creature disappearing from Dean's sight in a blur of wings - his brother dangling helplessly in its grasp.

"Nooo!" Dean roared racing after them.

TBC…..

**Nah….just kidding…scroll down for more….````````````````````````````````**

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"Damnit, damnit, damnit," Dean sounded-off, part in anger, but mostly in fear. At least he wasn't tracking blindly, the creature had left him a trail of bloodspots

Fast and agile, Dean took the steps two at a time, tracking the quarter and dime-sized drops of red, splattered sporadically upon the floor. He was a nose-to-the-ground tracker, highly skilled and extensively trained to hunt and to kill. Able to track even the smallest of signs. A blood trial was an easy path to follow, and usually excited the hell out of Dean, but this - this blood trail only served to disturb him. Sure he'd wounded the bitch, but Mothman had wounded Sam as well.

"You fugly insect," he whispered out of breath, and slightly dizzy. "You are so deader than dead." Sweat dripped down the sides of Dean's face, mixing with his blood and sliding down his neck from the stray bullet that nearly separated his ear from his head. He didn't bother to wipe the drops away, more interested in concentrating on keeping his feet moving, and fighting back his emotions. The clear-cut blood marks led Dean straight up the spiral staircase back to the main room they'd entered the building from, then simply vanished. Dean froze in place. "Crap." Eyes to the ground, he swept the area, straining to see into the darkest corners. Nothing. Not a speck of blood, not a girly lock of hair. "Sam, where are you?" Dean's voice boomed through the quiet building, wanting to be heard, by every friggin' rat, by Sam, by Mothman.

He wanted so badly to gank something, but not like this, not at the expense of his brother's life. Dean was breathing heavily, the flush of heated terror threatening to disable him. The room was empty, not even a rat in sight now. The walls seemingly circled around him in a dizzying blur, adding to his terror.

"What'd you do with him, you bitch," he yelled, hoping to flush Mothman from hiding. "Come on out. Come get me. I taste way better than that shaggy hemorrhoid you have now." Dean wiped the warm blood trickling down his neck away. "Afraid I'll put you back in the cocoon you came from?" Dean goaded.

Nothing. He closed his eyes for a brief second and drew in a long breath holding it deep in his chest. It was painfully obvious, Mothman truly was smart and not about to fall for any 'come hither' tricks. Mothman knew Dean would go after him, he could see it in the creatures eyes. The creature knew it couldn't tackle both Sam and him at the same time. Divide and conquer. Mothman would lure Dean to his lair, using Sam as bait - super-size his meal and his fun by adding Dean.

'Never, ever, ever, panic - ever.' His father's mantra - always inside his head.

Dean blew the breath he'd been holding out, opening his eyes. "Come on!" Dean shivered, invisible ice-cold fingers squeezing his heart.

The room had at least stopped revolving, but there was still no sign of blood, Mothman, or Sam. He suddenly noticed the door they'd come through was slightly ajar. Had ugly flown the coop, taken Sam out of the building to some other nesting ground. Or was that just the open door trick? His father had taught him that one when Dean was still in diapers. Still, how could he be totally sure.

"Which way. Which way?" Dean sighed, slowly moving forward. "Sammy, tell me which way."

Every second counted, when your brother was injured and/or in the clutches of a fugly. If Dean chose the wrong way, well, he didn't have time to think on that. There were only two ways he could see. Out the front door, or up the stairs to the second level.

There was a bond built between Sam and Dean. A bond neither cared to overcomplicate with words. It was just there and they used that bond, like they used all their senses - to their advantage.

"I hear you, little brother. I'm coming to get you." Attention keen, gun at the ready, Dean dashed across the large room and up the spiraling stairs to the second level.

**TBC….hm? Nah….onward…**

**Scroll down**

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Dean lowered his weapon as he walked through the dark hallway he'd found himself in. He blinked, squeezing his eyes shut tight and reopening them, the action helping him to adjust to the dark. There were no windows, and every door he came across was locked. The upper floor wasn't as rock solid as the lower. Above Dean, the ceiling had crumbled away, revealing patches of night sky. The starlight wasn't much, but did help to light his way - to where - he held no clue. A ghostly breeze floated down, running a chill through his entire body, yet, oddly, the small hallway he crept through was hot and stuffy and smelled of rotting dead things. He continued to investigate, running his hand along the wall searching for any unlocked door, any opening, a friggin' rat's hole.

He was hitting nothing but walls. "Crap!" Dean banged a heavy fist against said wall, putting literal meaning behind his frustration.

**Thump. **

The wall, produced a hollow sound. "What the?" Dean examined the wall further. "I don't believe it." He pressed an ear to the wall and listened. Nothing. His fingers felt along. "Huh." He sucked in a breath when he latched onto a small crack. Using the split like a handle, Dean pulled. Nothing. "Rrrrgh." He tugged harder, giving a booted kick for added strength, and the secret door opened. Pressing his lips together, Dean poked his gun inside. Sweeping the muzzle back and forth, he cautiously examined the entrance way. Again, nothing.

Mothman really did have a head on his shoulders. Dean figured there probably was a false wall or trapdoor downstairs, as well. Would explain why the blood trail just stopped cold.

He stepped inside, blinking long and hard, his eyes adjusting to a new level of lighting. At first he felt like he'd stepped into a coat closet. Dean stepped further in, the passageway taking him down another corridor. Sam just had to be in here, somewhere, he could feel it. Dean turned a corner, something hard and brittle cracking and crunching under the heaviness of his boots. His tongue flicked out to lick nervously at the corner of his mouth. He didn't have to look down to know exactly what he was stepping on. No wonder the cops never found any bodies.

"Damn it," he whispered, moving forward and trying to lighten his step, desperate not to draw attention to himself, but it was pretty impossible keeping quite treading over human bones. Mothman had to hear him creeping around. He was open and vulnerable, the two things Dean hated worst of all. He couldn't help but feel he was playing some kind of cat and mouse game with the creature. He could sense the bitches intelligence when it sneered at him just before moth-napping Sam. And now his instincts were screaming at him. He was being watched, the creature waiting, baiting him every step of the way. The thing not only loved to eat human meat, it liked to play with its food first.

Dean came to the end of the hallway, before him a doorless room. He warily stepped inside, instinctually edging along the wall. Dean stopped, letting only his eyes search the room that had obviously been long forgotten about. Unlike, the rest of the water plant, this room had windows. Several were still boarded up with ply wood while a few others were open. The ply wood having been ripped down, allowing the light of the moon and the night breeze entrance, and allowing whatever else an exit, Dean figured. Through the semi-darkness he could see ghostly gray wisps of thick cobwebs lining every wall. The floor was covered in dry leafs, twigs, dirt and fecal pellets.

"Gross," Dean hissed quietly.

Mothman obviously didn't care about sanitary conditions.

The room was large. The cement walls and floor not quit as damp and mildewy as the lower level. Dean's gaze roved over a half dozen or so dust coated file cabinets, desks. Some of the chairs were broken and overturned, some neatly pushed in under the desk. Perhaps this was an office at one time or another, now moth man's secret hiding place.

To his left, in a far-off corner appeared to be a huge curtain of even thicker, gauze-like cobwebs, silvery in color, cone shaped and spindled together with care. There were at least fifty pods that Dean could see and inside each one, strange shadows wiggled and wormed about.

"Eww." Dean stepped in closer to get a better look. "Cobwebs, my per… 'eh…Sam's persqueeter."

The water plant didn't have just one Mothman. There had to be a Mothwoman as well. A breeding pair who obviously had so many children they didn't know what to do - other than to hide them, and feed them - human flesh - wrapped in kid brother packaging.

"Sam," Dean muttered worriedly, unable to take his eyes off the squirming larva inside the cocoons. They appeared to be in different stages of metamorphosis. Some getting ready to hatch. "Crap." Not only would the water plant soon be infested with the human-sized insects, but the entire town would.

To his right, near one of the open windows he found more cottony, slim coated cocoons. However, these were different, they weren't just getting ready to hatch - they had hatched. The larva turned giant caterpillar, looking very hungry as they formed a circle around their obviously stunned, shaggy haired, wide awake food supply standing in the center. One of the baby caterpillars had crept close, rising up in front of Sam, its gapping mouth open and ready to snap.

Dean hesitated for a moment, not sure what he was looking at. Suddenly his heart lurched in his chest. "Sam!" his hesitation quickly turned into rage as he charged forward. "Sammy!" Dean full bodily slammed into his brother, just as one of the newly hatched caterpillars was about to take a bite out of Sam. "Shiiiittt!" Dean yowled as he and Sam both sailed through the air right out the open window, and splashing into the river below.

**TBC….for real this time. Won't keep you waiting long. On my honor.**


	2. Conclusion

Summary: Conclusion of Page Eight - with no TBC interruptions…he he.

Rated: Nothing horrible with a bunch of soapy/sappy added in to sweeten.

Thank you so much! You guys are most wonderful and giving of yourselves and time! Very dear to my heart - indeed!

Sunshine even in rain,

Karen

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Previously:: "Shiiiittt!" Dean yowled as he and Sam both sailed through the air right out the open window, and splashing into the river below.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At least it wasn't a long fall into the deep river below. Dean immediately somersaulted, righting himself underwater, and swimming upward through the blackness and fizz of bubbles. He surfaced cursing, sputtering and totally pissed at himself for misjudging distance and strength. He hadn't meant for them to take the dive, just needed to get Sam's head out of the way of baby moth's jaws.

A few yards away Dean saw Sam struggling to stay afloat, his head bobbing just above the surface. The kid still seemed stunned, barely treading water, bubbles and foamy waves swirling around him as if he were soaking in a Jacuzzi.

"Sam," Dean shouted. "Don't drown, you hear me." He started swimming toward his brother.

"De…" A wave rolled over Sam, and he went under gurgling.

"No!" Dean swam faster.

What seemed like two hours to Dean had in fact only been two seconds as Sam's head popped back up into sight, the kid kicking and splashing to keep above water. Obviously, the cold plunge had knocked some of Mothman's stun-gun venom out of Sam - and thank god for that.

"That's my boy," he yelled, noting Sam looked tired, but was handling the 'no drowning on my watch' rule. "Hold on, Sam." Dean neared. "Here, right here." He reached out the last few inches, taking Sam by the shoulders and helping to hold him afloat. "You okay?" He treaded water for the both of them.

"I'm o-okay." Sam's teeth chattered. "W-wa' happened?"

"Like page eight says, Mothman stuns its victims just long enough so they can't get away while he and his family chow down. Good thing my handsome self came along. Pushed your ass away from the jaws of death."

"G-g-good thing." Sam looked down at himself. "I-I-I'm soaking wet."

"Jumping out a second-story window into a river has a funny way of doing that to a guy." Dean nodded toward a rickety old dock. "Sink or swim?"

"Ffff I choose swim," Sam stuttered, teeth-chattering cold. "Y-y-you gonna dunk my he-he-head under w-w-wa-water?"

"Bro." Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Would I do that?"

Sam hesitated, obviously thinking the question through- and-through. "S-swim," he finally stammered, "but stay-stay close," he added, a nervous hitch in his tone.

"You bet, pal," Dean assured softly.

They swam side-by-side through the inky black water; Dean keeping a weary eye on Sam.

"I'm okay, D-Dean. You better st-stop looking at my 'dumb face' - might turn t' stone."

"I'll brave it," Dean quipped.

"Ah-ah-ah-" Sam squeezed his eyes shut, the action sending him off center. "Chooo." He gave a wet sneeze, hands faltering, his head slowly dipping under the waterline.

"Hey, hey, hey." Dean nabbed him by the scruff of his jacket and held him above the surface. "You chose swim, Sam, so swim," Dean berated.

"I got it." Sam coughed up water, but didn't budge.

"Uh-huh," Dean drawled. " You got what? Sea Monkey or water up your nose?" He asked, still hanging onto Sam's jacket collar.

Sam snuffled thickly. "Le' me work on that, g-get back to you." Sam glanced across the river toward the dock

Dean followed his gaze. "It's not far," he said softly.

Sam shuddered. "Dee, pppffffttttt," he muttered weakly.

"Must be something in the water, dude, your IQ is dropping."

"Shhhhdddduuuppp," Sam shivered.

"It's okay, Sammy." Dean braced one arm across Sam's chest. "Come on, buddy, let's get you to dry land."

"Deeee." Sam craned his neck to keep above water, arms and legs tussling feebly trying to help.

"Just lean back." Dean pulled him closer. "Let me handle this one, okay?"

"'Kay," Sam relaxed back, his head falling to Dean's shoulder.

Fog lay heavy over the water, creeping and swirling around them carrying the scent of dead fish. Luckily it didn't take Dean long to swim them both to the floating dock. He clambered up onto the weathered planks first, quickly extending his hand down to Sam, and pulling him out of the drink; both saturated and dripping wet.

Sam flopped down heavily sitting next to Dean. Fr-fre-freezing," Sam chattered, wrapping his arms tightly around himself, and rocking back and forth.

"Damn." Dean reached up checking out a leaking cut above Sam's right eye. "Look what that bitch did to your dumb-face." He wiped the thin line of blood away.

"You, you," Sam coughed and sputtered, "Sent us out the window."

Sam looked shocked.

"Huh." Dean regarded the window they'd fallen from. "Over guesstimated," he swiped water from his blurring eyes. "My bad," Dean laughed lightly

"Snuh, funny." Sam pawed at Dean's jacket. "Have to destroy them, fffffast." He started to climb to his feet, the action jarring him back down. "Guh." He squirmed, trying to glance over his shoulder at the stinging pain mid-way down his back.

"I thought you said you were okay," Dean growled, immediately up on his knees, and leaning over Sam. "Where'd he get you?" Dean clapped a hand to Sam's back, feeling around. "Nice puncture wound, bro. Probably from when that friggin' flying monkey flew away with you."

"Flying moth…aaahaha." Sam balked, jerking away from Dean's probing fingers.

"Flying moth also gnawed on your shoulder and left some nasty looking teeth marks." Dean noted, staring at Sam's torn jacket and wincing.

Sam glanced down at the top of his shoulder. "Bleedings stopped," he informed.

"Maybe so, but I need to get these wounds cleaned up before they get infected."

"After the hunt is finished." Sam's trembling, wet fingers gripped Dean's jacket and both men pulled each other to standing. "Dean, we can't sit around licking wounds while those cocoons finish hatch," Sam coughed, "Hatching and…hurrraaah," he gagged, spitting water from his mouth and struggling to maintain equilibrium. "This thing moving?"

Dean lowered his head peering up under the curtain of Sam's poker-straight, dripping wet hair. "Dude, I love your enthusiasm, but you were almost dismembered, nearly drowned."

"And you nearly lost an ear." Sam's unsteady hand reached out toward the bloody mess on the side of Dean's head.

"Doesn't hurt." Dean grabbed Sam by the forearm, steadying him. "And we're not talking about me, we're talking about your green around the gills ass."

"We're wasting time, Dean. Those cocoons are going to finish hatching and devour this whole town."

"You and Dad." Dean dropped his chin to his chest, shaking his head. "Stubborn asses," he let out a low whistle. He was the one who wanted to gank something so badly, and now here the tables were turned. He raised his head. It was unnerving to see his dad staring back at him - shining through Sam's eyes. As much as the kid protested the life, Sam was a well-trained beagle, going over, under, and through any and all obstacles to get the job done.

"Shooter or fire starter?" Sam asked doggedly.

Dean gave Sam a long, suffering look.

"Shooter." Dean turned, away. "Let's do this." He stomped off toward the Impala to get the goodies needed, Sam trotting hot on his heels.

Replacing wet weapons with dry weapons, gas can and lighter ready, they stormed back across the pier, into the building and up the spiraling stairs. Entering the no longer 'not so hidden' room, they stood a moment, scouting. No sign of pa pa or ma ma moth, and the baby caterpillars seemed to have tierd, taking their little, baby moth naps.

"Dean, you sure about this? Maybe it would be easier if we both…"

"I called shooter." Dean gave Sam a confident nod. "Go."

Using the rooms dark shadows, Dean hid himself, stalking about the room. He kept one eye on Sam - fire starter - the other on anything that dared make a move. Sam made quick work of the hatched napping caterpillars. The strong whiff of gasoline Sam now glugged over the half-hatched cocoons, made Dean's heart pick up pace. Every instinct, every muscle and nerve was at the ready. This was what he'd been missing. The excitement, that moment just before you knew you were about to kill and rid the world of another evil son of a bitch. The rush was a drug he could taste without ever having to inject a syringe, pop a pill, or swallow a Tequila shot.

Tequila, Dean licked his lips, they'd need some of that when…"Crap." He caught sight of a white blur zooming down from somewhere up above, like greased lightning. "I got you now," he growled, like a formidable jungle panther. Dean swung his gun's muzzle instinctively - gun-eye coordination practiced to perfection. He didn't even have to think about shooting the fast moving form flying toward his brother in an attempt to save its nest. "Toast them, Sam, now!" Dean shut out the sudden brightness of orange flames, screeching larva, and awful smell of burning flesh. He pulled the trigger, the single shot - clean, hitting Mothman in the heart and dropping the creature to the cement floor, before the overgrown insect could make a grab for Sam again. Stepping over to his kill, Dean booted the creature's bloody shoulder he'd wounded early. "That's for messing with my little brother, you fugly bastard." Dean smiled, taking great pleasure dragging the heavy body by one leg and adding daddy Mothman to the fire, like a log. "Gives a whole new meaning to the words, like a moth to the flame. Ha," Dean snickered across the crackling blaze at Sam.

"Cliché." Sam cringed. "Avoid them at all cost, like anchovies."

"What are you high on gas fumes?" Dean frowned.

Sam shrugged. "Creative writing 101."

"Damn things aren't attracted to the golden arches are they?"

"Forget it, Dean."

"Forgotten."

They watched the flickering flames eating mothman's body and his cocooned kids up fast.

"So, you'd think mommy moth would have come to the rescue where do you think the bitch is?" Dean asked, watching ash from the fire float out the nearby window.

"Don't know," Sam kneaded the back of his neck, "but we have to find her, if she's still here. If she's flown the coup, she'll probably find another mate, spawn more larvae."

"That tramp." Dean stared into the already dying flames. "Let's hook us up with a moth lady, then, Sam. We'll have to split up, double-time the search, do a sweep of the entire area, top to bottom." He wasn't sure Sam was up to that, the kid was still quivering. "Inside or outside?" Dean chuckled, checking his gun.

Dean never heard a reply, only the flapping of wings and his brother screaming out his name. His chuckle was knocked out of him along with his breath as Sam barreled him to the ground. Dean rolled up to his knees, weapon ready.

"Sam," Dean blurted out, just in time to see Sam and moth-woman vanish out the window from his sight.

"Talk about cliché" Dean exploded to his feet.

Not even bothering with the window, he headed out the room and down the spiral stairs. His feet barely touched each step as he made it in record time to ground level. Dean flew out the front door, terror pulsing in his neck, mind racing. Sam was injured. Sam was fighting moth-lady, alone, with no weapon. Sam was in the river - again.

"Crap, crap, crap." Dean urged his feet to move faster. "Sam, you stupid, dumb…" Dean rounded the building. He slowed his roll-then froze, standing on the edge of the floating dock - scanning the blackened water. The river bubbled lazily along over branches and rocks, but there was no sign of Sam, or moth bitch. The silence was only followed by sharp, invisible fingernails scrapping down his spine and screeching like a blackboard. Losing Sam would be the worst thing that could ever happen to Dean. The thought alone made every little neck hair stand straight, electrified by fear - something no zombie, ghost, or teeth- baring black dog could ever do.

"Oh, my, God, Sammy," Dean breathed, laying his gun on the dock, about to jump in.

Before he could, the quiet exploded in a splash of gurgling, strangulating Sam, only a few feet away.

Sam's head jerked far back. "Uhhhhhhhhhh," he sucked at the air, like he was sucking it through a straw.

"Sam." Dean hit both knees at the same time, close enough to reach out. "Here! Sammy, here," he yelled gaining his brother's attention.

"De," Sam sputtered.

"Dude, give me your hand." Dean reached down to him.

Sam raised his hand, panting hard, like he'd been running against the wind.

"Hurt bad?" Dean asked, pulling Sam up and reaching for his waistband, hiking him the rest of the way out of the water.

"Nuh," Sam hacked, falling to his back, arms spread limp, sloppy wet and staring up at Dean through narrow eyelids. "Not much worse than before."

"You scared the crap out of me, bro." Dean kneeled beside him.

"Ah…ah…ah…choo," Sam sneezed, his body bucking off the ground. "Gah." He winced.

"Kazuntite." Dean lowered his head, perched over Sam. "Dude, you chose out?"

"W-was tha' wrong?" Sam coughed bay water from his mouth and nose.

"Too late to change your mind now," Dean wisecracked.

"My ba-bad." Sam continued to spit up the river.

"Easy." Dean slipped a hand under Sam's back helping him to sit forward. "Try to take deep breaths." He looked around. "Where's Moth bitch?"

"Drowned." Sam's eyes fluttered, taking in sharp gasp after sharp gasp. "Atishooooo." He wetly sneezed.

"You sick?"

"Atishoo," Sam sneezed again, snot hitting Dean's jacket.

"Stop donating your snot, man."

"Dean," Sam sniffled. "I think I really am."

"Am what?"

"Sick," Sam said nasally.

"In the head." Dean gave Sam's arm a gentle squeeze, only half-joking.

Sam coughed raggedly, "Dean, I'm serious."

"Cold or flu?"

"You pick, man, I'm to tired to care which." Sam covered his mouth to cough.

"You're so fragile." Dean put a hand to Sam's forehead, brushing damp hair back. "Flu," he quickly deduced. "Come on, back to the car." Dean stood - Sam didn't make a move. Just sat there sopping wet, shivering, teeth chattering a mile a minute. "Want a helping hand, little brother?"

Sam nodded gratefully.

Dean reached a hand down. "You're a monster pain in the ass," he said, half-jokingly. You do know that, right?"

Sam stared for a moment. "Guess we have a lot in common," he volleyed, raising a hand to clasp Dean's. "'Cause you're a monster pain in mi…guh," Sam groaned as Dean yanked him up to staggering feet.

Dean grasped both Sam's shoulders, steadying him. "You were saying?" He smiled, through a light mist of rain that just began to fall.

"Forget it," Sam sighed heavily. "It's raining, and this thing is moving." He wobbled dizzily.

"No kidding, Captain Moron." Dean carefully maneuvered Sam against his side, and wrapping an arm around his waist, took a step.

"Damn." Sam winced, blowing out a breath.

"You okay?" Dean paused.

"I'm okay," Sam ground out hoarsely.

Dean nodded, continuing in the direction of the car, the squish-squish of wet boots, and the soft pitter-patter of rain dotting their jackets. Sam had sagged against Dean with each step, eyes blinking fiercely to stay awake.

"Almost there, Sam." They hit the end of the pier, striding across the weed-infested parking lot. "Oh. My. God!" Dean bellowed.

Sam snapped to attention. "What? What, 'oh, my, God'?"

"Look at what those paint wreckers did to my baby." Dean swept an angry hand through the air. "She looks like a spotted horse."

"For the love…Dean, pigeon poopy is not a national disaster."

"Dude, if there was a clown face painted on her, you'd be singing a different tune. Baby's a work of art and now," Dean huffed, "Just remind me to add a car cover to our supply list." A squealing cat-sized rat crossed their path. "Holy Swiss cheese, batman," Dean danced both he and Sam around the rodent that skittered off into the night. "And rat poison," he added to the growing list. "Friggin' hell, this means war." Dean opened the car door and lowered Sam to the passenger seat "I'm gonna rip them apart." He tucked Sam's feet in. "I am going to splatter their guts. I am going to wipe them all off the face of the earth. I am so gonna…" Dean bent forward. "Sam?" He studied his brother with concern. "Hey?" He leaned closer. Sam's left cheek was pressed against the seat, eyes closed, his breathing steady and even. Dean smiled, a warm gooey feeling passing over him - the same feeling he always got from the time he was a kid, watching over his sleeping brother. "You always did fold over and fall asleep anywhere. Lame bro, really lame." Dean reached over Sam to the back seat, snatching a wool blanket. He bit into his lower lip as he lay the blanket softly over Sam. Sam, asleep - breathing easy and slow - always made Dean feel alive. There was a peaceful silence as Dean reached out and gently swiped a strand of wet hair off Sam's forehead.

Sam's heavy eyes barely fluttered open. "Hey." He smiled groggily up at Dean, before his eyes rolled under his lids and he slipped back into a sound sleep.

"Okay, maybe not so lame." Dean smiled wistfully. "Fact is…you always were sorta cute when you were asleep." Dean ever so quietly shut the car door, not wanting to alert Sam to the ever rare and elusive 'chick- flick' moment.

EPILOGUE

Motel Save-A-Lot, sucked major ass. With only one queen they were forced to share the bed. Sam had tossed and turned all night, leaving Dean with pretty much nothing to do. He stared longingly at the old black and white set, wishing he knew where he'd put the damn remote.

It was four in the morning and Sam, only half-awake, had been restlessly tugging and pulling at the sheets for the last thirty minutes - now completely tangled in them.

"You good?" Dean peered down at his trapped brother.

Sam pried his eyes open, breathing heavy and congested, he stared at the ceiling. "'I'm good." He kicked at the sheets, grimacing when they tangled further around him.

"Sam," Dean's voice held a rough-edge. "Stop." He tugged and pulled at the sheets until Sam was free.

Sam turned toward Dean, the redness of his eyes barely noticeable through narrowed slits. "Tanks," he snuffled, sitting up against the wall as there was no headboard.

"Well…ahhh…choooooo," Dean sneezed.

Sam plucked a tissue from a small box on the nightstand next to him, handing the tissue over.

Dean took the offering and blew his nose hard and loud.

"Atichoo." Sam's turn to sneeze.

Dean plucked a tissue from a second box on the nightstand next to his side of the bed, handing the Kleenex over to his sick brother.

Sam blew his nose like a Trumpet.

Dean shivered.

Sam reached over and pulled the comforter up around Dean's neck. "This bites," he coughed and hacked.

"Tell me." Dean dug two cherry flavored cough drops out of his tee-shirt pocket, popped one in his mouth and handed the other to his 'not so attractive' bedmate.

Sam unwrapped the paper and popped the lozenge into his mouth.

"Bored," Dean murmured, wiping the sweat off his brow.

Sam searched under the covers, finding the remote, he handed the control to Dean.

"Thirsty," Sam whimpered, pointing to the carton on the table across the room.

"Nah, got whiskey." Dean held up his flask and took a swig.

Sam continued to gaze at the orange juice carton.

"Sam."

"Yeah."

"It's not going to just float over here by itself."

"I know." Sam frowned, his gaze never faltering.

Dean sighed, "Dude, just go get it."

"I found the remote. 'S your turn." Sam rubbed at his throat, his voice scratchy.

"I'm your brother, Sam, not some Ooo-la-la, hot French maid."

"You're a jerk," Sam flicked an outraged glare on Dean, flopping down flat.

"That's me." Dean smiled sweetly. "Here." Dean held the flask out to Sam.

"Dean, I don't want…booze." Sam shifted on the bed, his face contorting in pain.

"Stubborn…sit back up," Dean insisted, scooting near. "Just trust me and do it. This will help. Those stitches I put in your shoulder and back have got to be killer, and you're all fevered up with flu." He waggled the flask in his hand, the liquid inside sloshing about.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, lips pressed tight - staying still as a rock.

"What are you, two?" Ignoring Sam, Dean worked a hand under Sam's shoulders and lifted. "Stop fighting me, Sam," Dean gritted out clenched teeth as Sam let his body go dead weight, forcing Dean to work harder at getting him upright. "Why do I have to do everything?" Dean grunted, propping Sam up stacking his own pillow on top of Sam's. "There," he claimed in a self-satisfied voice.

"Cause," Sam gave a low grunt, "It's easier." He raised himself higher up on the set of plump cushions.

"Now, drink." Dean physically took Sam by the wrist and shoved the flask into his hand.

Sam raised the flask, took a whiff and grimaced. "What is this?"

"Page twenty-four."

"What?"

"Page twenty-four," Dean shrugged, "of dad's journal. It's a cold remedy. Try it. I feel better already."

Sam eyed the drink suspiciously.

"Oh, for the love, Sammy, drink it."

Sam gave a 'here goes nothing' look, quickly pressing the flask to his lips and taking a long drink. "Not bad." He swiped at his mouth. "Throat feels better already." He took another swig. "What's in this?"

"Honey, sea salt, lemon juice, half an onion wrapped in my sweaty boxers all rolled together and boiled in whiskey."

"Gah." Sam thrust the flask back at Dean, closing his eyes, he sank deeper into the pillows. "You suck." He closed his eyes.

"According to page twenty-four, was grandma's, grandma's, next door neighbors grandma's recipe. Tried and true." Dean pressed the back of his hand to Sam's cheek. "You're really hot, dude."

"Hotter than you?" Sam peeked open a curious eye.

"Major league, bro." Dean reached over to the basin on his nightstand. Wringing out the wet cloth, he folded the fabric into a square, placed it on Sam's forehead and held the cloth in place.

"Might even say I was 'sorta cute'." Sam laughed/ coughed.

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "You little bitch. You were awake. Listening? The whole time?" He asked, stunned and embarrassed. "The whole time," he stated more firmly. "I was…I'm gonna…gonna…gonna…"

"Not such a 'dumb face' after all, huh, Dean."

"Give me back my pillow."

"Not a chance." Sam snuggled down, cuddling the two pillows firmly and closing his eyes. "Night, night, Dean."

"Son of bitch."

The end


End file.
